Before the Dawn
by Sir-Mercutio-McHuffer
Summary: The first time he meets her, she is a nigh-dead waif in a cell, apostate hovering over her like a balding crow about a jewel. The second time he meets her is in the heat of battle under a verdant sky. The third time he meets her, she is once again a nigh-dead waif, though no longer in a cell.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** I have just finished Dragon Age: Inquisition and I am bereft, scooped out and hollow. So I will fill the hole that it left in me with DRAGON AGE FANFICTION! Also, someone really needs to mass-produce Cullens and send me one. Please. I would walk him every day and feed him well and cuddle him!

I don't know where this series of drabbles will go, so enjoy the ride while it lasts :)

**Disclaimer:**

I own nothing you recognise. This is all completely un-beta'd and totally fresh off the top of my brain!

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><p>Cullen has never, not in all his long years, seen anyone fight as brutally or as efficiently as the Inquisitor and her forward team.<p>

She hurls herself into the fray, bouncing from target to target heedless of her own body. Despite this, they know _exactly_ where each other is at all times. Cassandra takes the bulk of the fray. Blackwall stands beside her, massive two-handed axe thunking through demons like they were made of milk. Dorian hangs back, body weak and unprotected but mind strong, freezing the spirits in their tracks for Blackwall to shatter.

She picks them off, one by one, slamming into them with her daggers. "HUP!" she yells and Cassandra ducks in time to miss the barb-tipped chain she throws. Brains splatter out the back as the tip embeds itself into a demon's head. She uses her forward momentum to jump in, over Cassandra's head to rebound off the corpse, simultaneously pulling her chain free again. She whistles back into action, darting around Blackwall to land a pointed uppercut through the rage demon's chin. The tip of her dagger spurts out the back of its head. She wrenches it free before it falls, and she continues, spinning into motion to intercept a runner going for Dorian.

He is impressed.

Quietly, very quietly, in the privacy of his own quarters when all else have gone to bed, he admits he was also a little turned on. But that is a _very_ quiet, personal admittance.

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	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** Brain on fire. Oogling Cullen. If you haven't seen the Dragon Age Inquisition game of the year award nomination clip, go do so. Topless Cullen just casually strolling by. Mmmhmmm.

**Disclaimer:**

I own nothing you recognise. This is all completely un-beta'd and totally fresh off the top of my brain!

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><p>The first time he meets her, she is a nigh-dead waif in a cell, apostate hovering over her like a balding crow about a jewel. Her hand drips putrescent vapour. The apostate fusses.<p>

He leaves to march on the hell in the sky long before she recovers.

The second time he meets her is in the heat of battle under a verdant sky. She is sallow and frail, clinging to two knives with hunched shoulders. Her hand continues to drip, drip, drip until she raises it to the rift before them. It beams, connects, whines. The demons howl as they are sucked back, into the fade. The pitch intensifies until she pulls her hand back, snapping the connection between this world and the other.

He turns back to assist his troops, while they continue on.

The third time he meets her, she is once again a nigh-dead waif, though no longer in a cell. She is in a comfortable bed in a tiny healing cottage tucked into a corner of Haven. Her skin is waxen, even though her fever broke yesterday evening. Her tattoo carves down one eyebrow, over the eye (even the eyelid, Maker's breath that must have hurt) and down one high cheekbone. Her face is small, childish, a disarming heart of fragile skin.

He remembers her eyes, when they were open, were a piercing ice blue. He hopes, for all their sake, they open again.

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	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** I need to re-play the whole series again. And record it. With narration for posterity. I'd bring Beloved-Stranger into it, but I don't think she'd enjoy sitting through hundreds of hours of gameplay :D

**Disclaimer:**

I own nothing you recognise. This is all completely un-beta'd and totally fresh off the top of my brain!

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><p>The Herald of Andraste, they call her. How can this tiny slip of an elf be such? Would the Maker truly send them something so frail, someone who seems to be doing her best to curl back in on herself? She is deeply uncomfortable by the attention, the eyes on her, he can see that the moment she steps foot into the War Room.<p>

They are introduced. Nikolai. A name of harsh consonants and terse intonation. Sharp like her eyes, drilling holes through his skull despite her body language.

He would have dismissed her but for those burning eyes. He was wise not to.

Her voice is strong and clear, her gaze level as she makes her decision to pursue the mages rather than the Templars, his old order, the ones who could_ truly_ help. He thins his lips and watches her move, sees how she uncoils. She becomes larger than the sum of her parts. Her presence expands to fill every crack in the walls of the room.

Because Cassandra looks to her to lead. There is empty space between the leader Cassandra expects and this shrinking elf, and without thought, she grows to fill it. An indomitable spirit bursting through the seams of such a dainty form. She will lead and, Maker help them, they will follow.

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	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** Y'know what, the dialogue is going to be different. Because I don't remember it and I'm not _quite_ that invested in scripting the interactions. It's more fun if it's a bit different. The important thing is, THEY STILL GET THERE IN THE END!

Still waiting for a Cullen to arrive on my front door.

**Disclaimer:**

I own nothing you recognise. This is all completely un-beta'd and totally fresh off the top of my brain!

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><p>People begin trickling in to Haven, inspired by the Herald or rescued by her. Many of them are not fighters. Many young and old, a mishmash of abilities and professions. They bring news of her deeds, and for that, they are all glad for it. When Master Dennet and his entire stabling of fine Ferelden steeds arrive, they cheer. Cullen puts his face in his hands and wonders how they will feed so many horses. It was kind of her to at least convince the good Master to assist with their efforts.<p>

They stop by after their trip to Val Royeaux. The Lord Seeker, Cassandra confirms, has gone mad. Nikolai mutters something _very_ unsavoury under her breath. There are new additions to the Herald's forward team, a Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall and a perplexing elf named Sera. They depart with her when they lead out to Redcliffe and the mages.

They stumble back, weeks later, on the heels of the rebel mages from Redcliff. The party is hale and healthy and in high spirits. Varric cheerfully totters off to drink with Sera. Cassandra had sent a warning ahead of time, so he could stew on the Herald's decision. _Free mages_, and enough for an army, walking right into Haven! He likes it even less now that he can see them pouring in.

But when he catches her eyes he stops his forward march. She is silent atop her horse, hunched and hallowed as he has not seen her before. Haunted eyes and a desperate grip on the reins. Only one other in the party holds a similar look. The Tevinter. She gives Cullen a precarious smile before turning back to the Tevinter. The moment they dismount, she takes the Magister's elbow and guides him off, out of sight.

"Leave them be," Cassandra says, catching up with him before he can follow. "She needs the drink more than you need to yell at her."

That doesn't stop him from barging in on her the next day while she clutches her head and grimaces at him. He yells at her then, for scaring him, for scaring the town, for freeing the mages to exist without Templar support and oversight. She lets him for a few minutes before she stands up and snaps back.

"By Mythal, you did not see what he had wrought!" she howls, fists tight against her sides. "I will not alienate allies we sorely need to prevent that future." She turns away, then, hand thrust into her short hair. "The Inquisition needs them, Ser Cullen, to prevent all that was from coming to pass."

It takes the wind right out of his sails. He deflates, seeing her tired and bruised. Still the haunted look.

"What happened?" he asks, more gently now. She turns back to him, arms at her sides, once again unwavering and strong.

"I would not speak of it at this time," she replies. "If you would excuse me, I have other matters to attend." She brushes past him, legs stiff and shoulders taut.

He lets her go.

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	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** I'll take either a Cullen or a Tom Hiddleston, really.

**Disclaimer:**

I own nothing you recognise. This is all completely un-beta'd and totally fresh off the top of my brain!

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><p>He avoids her for the rest of her stay, coward that he is. Quiet murmurs of the good the Herald has done echo around him. He keeps a close watch on the mages. They know it.<p>

She departs with her forward team – Cassandra, Blackwall and the Tevinter – for an excursion to clear out some local mines they had mapped on their travels. Half the town turns up to see them off. Cullen watches from the steps of the Chantry. She sits proud atop her massive Ferelden charger, saddle bags filled only with the bare necessities.

They return two weeks later, and the whole town turns up to greet them, fingers desperately reaching to graze against the Herald's legs or feet. As though touching the Herald would bring upon Andraste's blessing. She takes it all with good grace, slowing her horse's movements in the throng so she does not injure anyone.

They ride right up to the Chantry doors where Cullen is waiting. Cassandra is the first to dismount, lithe and fluid, throwing her reins at one of the stable lads who had come to assist. The Herald's own charger stands in front of the Chantry doors, angled to hide her dismount from the town. Cassandra takes her reins, hands them to the stable hand, and carefully assists the Herald to dismount.

Up close, Cullen's trained eyes can pick up the hasty patches in leather as big as his fist. The bulging that indicates extensive bandages. The Tevinter's palour and the way he takes his time to dismount carefully.

She does not complain as she is herded through the Chantry and into the infirmary where the mages, ones properly trained in the art of healing, can get to work.

"Spiders," Blackwall explains as they leave her to the gentle ministrations of the mages. "Bigger than most mabari. I hate spiders."

She still convenes the council in the War Room that day. One of the mages lurks outside the door, frowning viciously at it as if it could convince the stubborn elf to return to her convalescence. Instead, they keep the debrief short and to the point, eyeing Nikolai with care. Her only tell is a slight favouring of her left side. A subtle hitch in her walk, a stiffness to the way she uses that arm.

They usher her back out the door and into the mage's waiting care.

"She did not mention it until we had finished clearing out the cave," Cassandra admits to him later, over a drink. "The spider had bitten her shoulder, put its legs through her side and thigh." The harrowed woman took another long drink. "Do not let him hear me say this, but Dorian is a good man. He did not falter."

"How bad was it?" he asks, angling his head to watch her reaction. She shudders, takes another long pull.

"It was not good," came the reply. Cullen takes a long pull of his own. They stare into their glasses for a long time afterwards.

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	6. Chapter 6

**AN:** Also, holy crap there are lot of seriously hot Solas fanfics out there. I'm going to start writing a modern-day Blight shortly. Keep your eyes peeled for that one, it will be an epic!

**Disclaimer:**

I own nothing you recognise. This is all completely un-beta'd and totally fresh off the top of my brain!

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><p>He sees her later that night sitting on the roof of her tiny cottage, rough woollen blankets swaddling her shoulders as she gazes at the sickly breach in the sky. Her had drops viridescent tendrils, illuminating the blankets covering her knees and throwing her face into shadow.<p>

He backtracks and takes the long way to his own cottage, leaving her to her peace.

The next day she appears at the training yards, moving stiffly in over-large warm leathers. Her shoulder, stomach and thigh bulge slightly from the bandages. She has even been stuffed into a hat, which hides her short-cropped blonde hair, and gloves. Green oozes from the seams on her plagued hand.

Her eyes flick to him first, but she veers away to have a quiet discussion with Cassandra. Later, when he is least expecting it, she appears at his side and they stand for a moment, he totally unsure as what to say or do, her just watching the soldiers train in peace.

"As you are one of my advisors," she begins and he nearly jumps out of his skin. Her voice is quieter than he is used to, more lyrical than in the War Room, where she projects her inner strength through the words that issue from her lips. "I would like to get to know you better." Her eyes flick to him then back to the training soldiers.

"I … er … what would you like to know, Herald?" he stutters out. Curses to his damnable tongue! It trips over words and halts over consonants like a nervous child would wring their fingers.

"I understand you are training our soldiers," she says. Pays no mind to his stumbling voice. "You are a Templar, are you not?" she tilts her head to look at him and he is once again arrested by the force of will behind those pale eyes.

"I am. I was recruited in Kirkwall. Cassandra sought a solution. When she offered me a position, I left the Templars to join her cause," he explains.

"Do Templars take vows?" she asks. "I have never met a Templar, we tend to … avoid them where we can."

"There is a vigil first. You're meant to be at peace during that time, but your life is about to change. When it's over, you give yourself over to a life of service. That's when you're given a philter – your first draught of lyrium – and its power. As Templars, we are not to seek wealth or acknowledgement. Our lives belong to the Maker and the path we have chosen."

Her eyes flash and a sly grin flits across her lips. His stomach drops. "Vows of poverty and obedience, but what of the physical temptations?" She watches him intently, teeth flashing as a flush hits his cheekbones and scorches the tips of his ears.

"Physical? Why ..." he shifts and clears his throat, eyes sliding away from hers. "Why would you..." Her grin turns positively wolfish and he steels his spine against it and her teasing. Blush still spreading, he levels his gaze on her and struggles on. "That's not expected. Templars can marry – although there are rules around it, and the Order must grant permission... some may choose to give up more to prove their devotion but it's … um, not required."

"And you?" she asks, sweetly, eyes growing wide with feigned innocence. The flush continues down his neck and he shuffles again.

"Me? Err ..." his voice stumbles for a moment, hitches in the back of his throat. "No, I've taken no such vows." He clears his throat again. "Maker's breath, can we speak of something else?" Her smile is all sweetness and light, as if she had not mercilessly been drilling him on his … chastity.

"How are our soldiers coming along, Ser?" she consents, and he gratefully throws himself into a discussion on what they are covering and how much _more_ they have yet to cover. How much more needs doing.

The redness of his embarrassment takes some time to dissipate. Later, when he remembers how her lips spread and teeth flashed, it returns.

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